...I am the immense shadow of my tears

The Little Mute Boy The little boy was looking for his voice. (The king of the crickets had it.) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with; I will make a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. (The captive voice, far away, put on a cricket's clothes.) Translated by William S. Merwin

At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.

I've often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

I sing your restless longing for the statue, your fear of the feelings that await you in the street. I sing the small sea siren who sings to you, riding her bicycle of corals and conches. But above all I sing a common thought that joins us in the dark and golden hours. The light that blinds our eyes is not art. Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.